Ocean Bay

Cicadas in the bush, the sea,
each sizzling in their own ancient way,
one with the monotony of millions
one the music of individuality:
but then there’s you and I, reader and poet
eye to eye, to tend this sunless day.
See the Gulls dive and squeal without inhibition,
hover watchingly, quarrel and curl
between my pencil and your eye
in a languidly lovely bay.

The bindweed trumpets silently as you, dandelion, heather and flax tremble in the warm breeze of your breath and the humped hill with scalloped forest over the Sound’s far side, dark and ominous, challenges the scoops of cloudy sky its rocky finger reaching for our secret bay. Only the mist of distance places it far away as you and I in soft perspective pass this dreaming day.